in this season of quiet, I am grateful to be a guest on the mudroomblog.com today, sharing a post that uncovers the magic of my season on the Sound this year………….
Aging
Missing Autumn
I returned to the Northwest this season, observing fall for the first time in thirty years.
I watched the trees behind my cottage transform from greens to yellow to gold.
The morning sun hits the bank just so, highlighting shades of crimson and sienna and umber against the verdant backdrop along the ridge.
I walk the beach where gold and yellow tumble with stones and sand.
I climb the hill lined with limbs still holding on to gilded gifts.
One releases, and flutters side to side, descending lightly to the ground to rest.
It is right I am here this autumn,
this season of transforming, maturing
grasping, holding on to gifts–
my children, all grown, branching into careers, marriages.
the youngest two in college, one soon to graduate.
my mother, just out of hospice, quieter now
still sees me, translucent, and smiles.
We spend time browsing through sheaves of photographs
Some in her season, her prime.
I see myself reflected in her smile
those years when she was young
surrounded by friends
and family
when she was a young mother
holding on to us
then letting go
her season follows traveling with Dad
places they dreamed of Rome, Israel,
now alone, in her autumn.
autumn
uphill journey rises
crests at forest’s peak, descends
as crimson leaves fall
autumn: n.
a time of full maturity, especially the late stages of full maturity or, sometimes, the early stages of decline
In this autumn
I will watch leaves drift unto the path
gathering with others that have done the same.
I will hold in wonder their change
the beauty of ripening, then release.
I will stand still
to catch my breath, not listening to former urges
to press forward.
Instead I will gather leaves
that descend upon my way
Press them into my book
to remember.
Messy Edges….Lola’s story in print available today!
Lola, as my mom is lovingly known (Lola means “grandmother” in Tagalog), celebrated her 94th birthday last weekend. The greatest tribute I could give my mother is to write a story about her beautiful heart. On her birthday I had the honor of presenting for the first time an essay entitled “Messy Edges” at the Festival of Faith and Writing in Grand Rapids, Michigan. This story briefly encapsulates the beauty and the heartbreak of caring for my mother in my home for eight years, and the release I found during that time through the gift of watercolor painting. The essay is published in an anthology entitled, The Wonder Years, 40 Women over 40 on Faith, Aging, Beauty and Strength, edited by my dear mentor and friend Leslie Leyland Fields.
(excerpt from “Messy Edges)
My mother is still with me as I write this. Today, I stop when she notices a red geranium, just like the ones she used to have outside her home.
“What flower is that, Mom?” I ask her.
She looks at it and smiles. “Geranium,” she whispers.
She smiles and time stands still. She pushes me to see beauty and wonder in every small thing, as if for the first time. My mother, even in her illness, gives me this gift, this gift of seeing. When I paint, these are the moments I try to capture. A field of sunflowers, a field of lavender. I try to keep the colors pure and vibrant on the paper, not muddied. I try to use brushstrokes that remain fresh and lively, not overworked. For previously I was holding on, too tightly, to the brush, to mom’s health, to life, afraid to loosen the grip, to lose control of the things I could not control. Now I understand that beauty unfolds in the letting go, in allowing the messy edges to bleed.
My story is one of many, glimpses into the lives of 40 women and the firsts, lasts, and always moments they have experienced during this season of life. I am honored to have Lola’s story tucked between authors I admire such as Ann Voskamp, Elisabeth Eliot, Madeline L’Engle, Luci Shaw, Brene Brown, Lauren Winner and Jill Kandel. Each story is beautifully crafted, leaving the reader with a takeaway that could make you laugh out loud, cry, or sigh in relief knowing someone else shares your voice.
The greatest joy of this story is the hope and strength I have received in being able now to transform a difficult time in my life and my family’s life into a place of encouragement to others along the same journey.
Please pick up your copy of The Wonder Years today on Amazon. If you need more convincing, please check out Lola’s promotional video below! I had the privilege of reading it out loud to her, and she wholeheartedly approves.
“What more important, Lola? Faith, Beauty or Strength?”
“All of them,” she says with a smile.
Love that is not Lost
There is a love that bears all things, the kind of love that looks you straight in the eye, into your soul, and sees everything….and still loves. The kind that allows you to be so transparent that nothing is hidden yet everything is loved. When we experience that kind of love our soul is blessed beyond all measure. The joy of holding that kind of love transcends any pain that may follow. For the greatest gift of this kind of love….from a mother, a spouse, a child, a friend, a dog….is knowing that just being in their presence is enough
I repost this blog today, Valentine’s Day, in honor of those whose love completely and unconditionally
Her eyes are glazed, yet a light in them still shines.
Her hearing is diminished, yet she still senses me.
She sits at my feet, as I rub her back between the shoulders.
She groans in acknowledgment, as if this happiness is too much to bear.
For a moment the panting stops.
A smile rests under her droopy eyes.
Her head turns, through those dimmed eyes she tells me of her love.
In days past, sixteen years of them, I would rush past her.
a quick pat on the head and I would be off
doing the things moms do, carpool, grocery shopping, logging miles on the minivan within my five mile radius
but when I returned she would be waiting
always with a wagging tail and a smile.
At times when things were not so rushed–
the groceries put away, the laundry folded–
I would put my tennis shoes on.
She would wag her, her eyes pleading expectantly.
“You wanna take a walk?” I would ask
and with that last word she would trot to the door.
We had our routine path, around the corner, past the pond, down to the left where old oak trees shaded us from the sweltering Florida sun, around the corner again along the sidewalk where bunnies scampered and butterflies flittered into the bramble when we passed.
When we turned back into the neighborhood her pace picked up a bit as she scampered up the driveway.
She knew she was home.
Years later, mom came to live with us. She was 83 years old. She partnered with us on these walks. Together the three of us would take that familiar path. Around the corner, past the pond, down to the left where old oak trees shaded us from the sweltering Florida sun, around the corner again along the sidewalk where bunnies scampered and butterflies flittered into the bramble when we passed. They were times to share tidbits of conversation or times of quiet reflection. Times of companionship.
When we turned back into the neighborhood, mom would exclaim every time, “Thank you, Lord, that we are home.”
Home.
A place of safety.
A place of familiarity
A place of refuge.
These walls of safety have kept out the elements. They have braved three hurricanes, a few tornado warnings, and multiple thunderstorms, even a lightning strike that hit the house and burned out our alarm system.
But these walls cannot shield us from the elements of aging, ones that grapple arthritic bones,
cataracts that dim the eyes, hearing loss that deafens a whisper
or amyloid plaques that tangle the brain.
These are elements that walls cannot keep out
so within these walls we must adapt and acclimate.
For many years I rushed in and out, hurrying on to the next thing.
Now
these elements bear down:
arthritis, aging, alzheimer’s,
causing me to slow.
Stop fighting
Stop rushing past.
Try to hold up.
Try to listen.
Try to see.
So we keep the routine.
Take the walks until the day the feet can only shuffle
Rub the back.
Hold the hand.
The smile still lingers, the one that rests under droopy eyes
and the sigh that says this happiness is too much to bear.
The head turns, the light in the eyes still shines
and through those dimmed eyes she tells me of her love.
A few months ago, the time came to put Cindy down. She was 16 years old. In her way, she let me know it was time.
She was lying down on a pink blanket. I put my face next to hers. She lifted her head slightly and looked straight into my eyes. With those eyes she said to me:
It’s OK. I love you. And I know that you love me and have loved me well. It’s OK to say good-bye. Let me go.
I love you.
seaglasslife 